


Of All the Gin Joints: Thirteen Drinks Jason DiLaurentis Didn't Have

by speakpirate



Series: Thirteen Things [3]
Category: Pretty Little Liars
Genre: Alcoholism And Recovery, Background Emison, F/M, Gen, Jaria, Unhealthy Ezria
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 05:11:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10690410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speakpirate/pseuds/speakpirate
Summary: He’s covered in travel grime, pretty sure he still smells like the camel he was riding two days ago.There’s a bar right next to his gate. Bottles of beer glisten in the light streaming in from the high windows of the terminal. Ice cold. No one knows him here. No one knows why he shouldn’t.That’s when the sign catches his eye.  “Welcome to Casablanca!”He snaps a picture with his phone.He texts it to Aria, along with a message.Here’s looking at you, kid.





	Of All the Gin Joints: Thirteen Drinks Jason DiLaurentis Didn't Have

**Author's Note:**

> _When it comes to fans of Ezria, I think Heather Hogan said it best: "I wish you understood that I am on your side. Not on Ezra’s side. Not on Ezra and Aria’s side. YOUR side, as women who are growing up/have grown up in this pervasive rape culture, I am writing for you."_
> 
> _This is a Jaria story, but it's not possible to tell their story without also writing an eventual conclusion for Ezria. And this is how I feel things would inevitably end for them._

I.

A waiter moves through the crowd with a tray of champagne flutes. They’ll be toasts soon, and everyone tapping their butter knifes against the glasses to encourage the brides to kiss. Not that Alison and Emily need much encouragement. 

He’s concentrating on how happy his sister looks, rather than tracking the movements of the glasses whirling around the room. Alison sees him watching her, whispers something to Emily and then leaves her wife with the other girls and comes over to stand next to him.

“Hey,” he says. “Congratulations.”

Alison looks across the room to where her daughter is being cradled by Pam Fields as Ashley Marin and Ella Montgomery coo over her. 

“I miss Mom,” she says.

“She’d be so happy for you,” he assures her. “And proud of you guys for finally making it work. I know I am.” He coughs, trying to fight down the lump in his throat. Alison’s eyes are a little watery, and Spencer is throwing him a look like she’ll skewer him with a steak knife if Ali starts crying. “But she’d also tell you that dress has the wrong neckline, and that a modest string orchestra is _much_ classier than a dj.”

Alison laughs. “She totally would.” She puts her head on his shoulder.

The waiter appears right in front of them. Jason waves him away.

\-------------------------

II.

His father has always been distant. Now he’s right there in the next room, albeit in a coffin. A massive heart attack at the club. Veronica’s survived three cancer scares to become a widow at sixty-three. 

All the complicated feelings he’s ever had about Peter Hastings are distilled into numb disbelief. He remembers all the times he’d come home late and night and see the cigar glowing in the window of Peter’s office. The smoke wafting out of the window next door. 

He shifts, uncomfortable in his heavy black suit. 

The Hastings women are standing in a receiving line. Three sets of pale cheekbones, their rigid postures as alike as their tasteful black dresses. Spencer doesn’t need anything from him. Alison and the other girls are out in force, flocking around her like blackbirds of grief and mourning. Pam Fields and Ella Montgomery are sitting on a high backed white sofa, keeping a careful eye on Veronica. He watches as Melissa breaks rank, teetering slightly in her heels as she makes her way out to the foyer.

He waits ten minutes, then goes after her.

She’s in the funeral director’s office, ignoring the Employee’s Only sign on the door. She’s hunched over the desk, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

“Hey,” he says, quietly. 

Melissa turns as suddenly as if she’s been slapped. She’s wiping angrily at her eyes, ignoring the white handkerchief he’s offering her.

“I’m sorry,” he says. For her loss. For all the ways that it is and isn’t his loss, too.

She pulls a flask out of her purse and unscrews the lid. The smell of Scotch fills the small space. A smoky malt. Fifty years old if it’s a day. The good stuff. She drinks deeply, the muscles of her throat graceful as a swan. 

“Spencer was there,” she says. “They were playing tennis. She was right fucking next to him.”

“That’s good,” Jason replies. “That’s good he wasn’t alone.”

She stares at him disdainfully, as if he’s just given the wrong answer to an incredibly easy math problem. She takes another long pull.

“Why are you here?” she asks, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She’s drunk, he realizes. She probably hasn’t eaten all day. All week, maybe. “You hoping for some big family moment with us? Think we’ll all hold hands and sing Kumbaya together?”

He’s seen this at meetings a thousand times. Anger is easy to feel. Comforting. It fills up the empty.

“Were you hoping for some closure? A sealed letter in his wallet about how he was proud of you? Because he wasn’t! He was ashamed every time he looked at you. Every time!”

He reaches over and gently takes the flask away.

“Keep it,” Melissa says contemptuously. “You know what they say - like father, like son.” She stalks out the door without a backward glance.

The flask is silver, has his father’s initials and the Hastings family crest engraved on it. The leftover Scotch, two fingers at least, sloshes at the bottom.

He pours it out into a potted ficus, tucks the flask inside his jacket.

\---------------------------

III.

It’s three o’clock in the afternoon, and Jason is sitting on a bar stool with a bottle of cheap whiskey and a shot glass in front of him. The shot glass magnifies the embossed lettering of the wedding invitation he’s using as a coaster.

Aria is marrying Ezra Fitz. 

He could polish off the bottle in less than an hour. Get drunk enough to head to the church. Bang on the doors. Go full on Graduate. 

She might like that. 

Give everybody in town a story to tell that about her that isn’t the time she got stalked or arrested or kidnapped or almost died in a bunker underground.

Maybe Ezra makes her feel safe. Or maybe that’s what she tells herself.

He stands quickly, pulls out a fifty and leaves in on the bar. Grabs the bottle and the invite and heads into the alley out back. He throws them both in a garbage can, hears the sound of the glass breaking and closes his eyes. Pictures it soaking the fancy calligraphy until it’s nothing. Nothing but a pulpy mess covered in jagged shards.

\------------------------ 

IV.

He’s lost track of what airport he’s in, somewhere in the middle of a series of connections from Dubai to Doha to Lagos. He’s been meeting with other philanthropic groups. More money, more projects. But now he’s covered in travel grime, pretty sure he still smells like the camel he was riding two days ago.

There’s a bar right next to his gate. Bottles of beer glisten in the light streaming in from the high windows of the terminal. Ice cold. No one knows him here. No one knows why he shouldn’t.

He gets up, slings his bag over his shoulder. Takes three steps towards the bar.

That’s when the sign catches his eye. “Welcome to Casablanca!”

He snaps a picture with his phone. 

He texts it to Aria, along with a message.

Here’s looking at you, kid.

\---------------------

V.

It’s the Fourth of July, and everyone in the yard is complaining about the heat. Everyone but Jason, sitting in a lawn chair with a glass of lemonade. His hair is shaggy and sun bleached, his skin tanned to a deep reddish brown. He’s spent the last five years building medical clinics in Benin, digging wells in Burkina Faso, repairing orphanages in Mali.

Emily comes over and sits next to him. “What are the chances I can get you to volunteer for Habitat while you’re in town? We have three builds going in Philadelphia. Give you a chance to hammer and saw domestically for a change.”

“Maybe,” he grins. Emily is the one who invited him today, the one who makes a point to remember his schedule, who always asks him over for dinner or a Christmas party or a backyard barbeque while he’s stateside. Important information used to be Ali’s stock and trade, but these days she’s content to relax, to leave that kind of stuff to Emily. They’re good partners.

He follows Emily’s eye to where the kids are playing badminton with Hanna. Emma is seven now, bossing four year old Sophie about how to hold her racquet. Far enough away from where Mike Montgomery is working at the grill. 

Aria made a quick appearance with a package of veggie dogs, a pitcher of Sangria, and her husband in tow. They only stayed for half an hour. Maybe she did have a headache. Or maybe it was tied to the surly, petulant look that’s settled into Ezra’s default expression these days. 

Spencer might know, but she’s chatting with Alison, the two of them sitting on the back steps, sipping red plastic cups of Sangria.

He went halfway around the world to avoid temptation. Hoping the sun would be hot enough to burn away the taste of his failures. 

The pitcher on the porch is sweating. 

“Thanks for doing this,” Jason says. “It’s good to see everyone.” He drains half his glass of lemonade, thinking about the taste of fruit soaked in wine. “You all seem so - happy.”

“You know what they say,” Emily replies. “Happiness is no threatening text messages or talking dolls.” 

“So everyone _is_ happy? Spencer and Ali and Hanna and - everyone?”

Emily sighs and doesn’t answer right away. These girls. Still so good at secrets.

“It’s easy to get caught up,” she answers, finally. “In what you think you’re supposed to want.”

There are shrieks from the badminton area, the birdie is caught in Hanna’s hair and the kids are screaming with laughter.

Emily pats his knee as she stands. 

“Don’t give up yet.” 

\-----------------------------

VI.

There are certain foods he can’t eat anymore. Wings. Corn dogs. Those crappy Hot Pockets he used to wolf down half cold after being too stoned to push the right buttons on the microwave.

Even the smell of them - corn dogs at the fair, warming on a dodgy gas station grill - kicks a circuit in his brain that ferociously wants beer. Cheap beer. Bud Light. 

He stands in line to pay for gas, stares at the six pack in the cooler. He should go back to Africa. Or South America. Except he’d like to see his nieces grow up in person, not track their growth from Christmas card to Christmas card.

He calls Spencer, listens to her rant about the Republican controlled Congress until he’s out of the gas station and fifteen miles down the road. That’s when she pauses for breath and changes the subject.

“I have something to tell you,” she says. “I’m getting married.”

\------------------------------

VII.

He’s grinning like a fool in his white tuxedo as he raps the side of his glass with a butter knife. Melissa insisted he get a haircut before the big day, even offered Emma fifty dollars to shave his beard in his sleep. (Fortunately, she’s a miniature Alison. She ratted Melissa out by asking if he was willing to make her a better offer.)

He watches the bubbles fizzing in his glass, the focuses on the faces in the crowd. 

“To my sister,” he declares, loudly. “To Spencer, who’s so adorably in love, it gives us all hope!”

Everyone raises their glasses, as Spencer smiles, her cheeks slightly pink. 

Jason drains his ginger ale and sets it down on the table.

\---------------------------

VIII.

Whether it’s his new look or his money or the toast, he’s maybe never been as popular with the ladies as he is tonight. He dances with his sisters, Mona, three Project Runway models who work with Hanna in New York, and a handsy French actress who now works at the United Nations with Spencer. 

He doesn’t dance with Aria, who came to the wedding alone, and is spending the reception on the steps of the Radley veranda drinking her way through a growing pile of wine bottles with her mother.

He waits until Ella gets up to use the restroom, then walks out and sits down next to her.

The weather is balmy, a spring breeze carrying the strains of the small orchestra out into the night.

“Beautiful wedding,” he says.

“I liked your toast,” Aria replies.

“I meant it.” He points through the glass doors, to where the happy couple is slow dancing. He’s never seen either of them look so happy. “Anything is possible, right?”

His hand moves towards hers, but collides with the stem of Ella’s glass, still half full. He runs a finger around the base. A perfect circle.

Aria smiles, but it’s a sad smile. “You look like David Larrabee,” she tells him. “In your white jacket.”

“We can meet on the tennis court,” he offers. “And make a plan to run away.”

She looks at him, a little bleary eyed. 

She’s drunk. 

She moves the wine glass and rests her head on his shoulder.

He stays perfectly still. His throat is dry. He can feel the blood in his veins, the pump of his heart.

Ella’s trips a little as she comes back out, has to catch herself against one of the proscenium columns.

Aria shifts away from him, and he stands up, helps Ella sit down. He’ll check with Emily in a minute, make sure they have an Uber take them home.

\------------------------------

IX.

Nothing changes. 

Spencer sets him up with the French actress. He likes her well enough.

They go to Davos together. After the conference, they stay for the skiing.

Paparazzi take pictures of them on the slopes, use long lenses to shoot them having a cozy breakfast in the lodge.

Anaïs puts a shot of brandy in her coffee every morning.

Each day, she offers the bottle to Jason.

Each day, he shakes his head no.

\---------------------------------

X.

They’re at a club in Paris. A smoke filled back room. Everyone is wearing black.

It’s New Year’s Eve. Bottles of outrageously expensive champagne are being passed around. Many have already had their corks popped, the contents drained. One has been smashed underfoot. The kind of bad manners only the rich can afford.

“Non?” a waitress says, trying to hand him one.

“Non,” he says, for at least the fifth time.

His phone buzzes with a text from Alison.

>Come home.

\--------------------------------

XI.

He hops on the next flight, ignoring the First Class stewardess who keeps trying to offer him a complimentary cocktail before take off.

The news stories are piling up. Former teacher arrested in child pornography sting. Pictures found of teenage girls as young as thirteen. Community shocked.

By the time he lands, three girls have come forward to accuse Ezra Fitz of inappropriate behavior.

There’s a picture of Fitz’s indignant face as he’s led away in handcuffs.

\---------------------------------

XII.

Aria’s in hiding, Spencer took charge and bustled her off to some mountaintop retreat with no internet, no phones.

“No talking!” Hanna adds. “They’ll be back soon, Spencer can only be quiet for so long.”

Spencer does come back a few days later, lamenting the extreme lack of coffee and forced caffeine deprivation. 

“It’s peaceful there,” she adds. “That’s what she needs right now.”

Emily is worried. Alison pulls out some of her own tricks, takes to snooping around the police station, interrogating various lowlifes to find out the exact nature of the evidence, the likely charges. Spencer has a lawyer draw up divorce papers, messengers them to Aria for her to sign. Hanna is the most chill, she says Aria’s probably writing her next three books. She’ll call when she’s ready.

When she does call, it’s to ask them to pack up her things.

There’s crime scene tape over the door of their house. “Just like old times,” Spencer mutters as she tears it down for them to walk through.

Most of Ezra’s stuff has been seized as evidence. They fill boxes of cookbooks and kitchen utensils. Wrap the breakables in bubble wrap. The few items of furniture that Aria wanted to keep are going to the DiLaurentis basement, everything else is being hauled to Goodwill. Spencer and Hanna tackle the bookshelves while Emily tries to see if any of the house plants can be nursed back to health.

Jason alone ventures into the office. The girls didn’t want to risk running into anything too grim. The place has been tossed, papers are scattered all over the floor, covered in careless footprints. He spends hours separating her pages from his, then painstakingly puts all 300 of them in order. It’s her novel. She might want it someday.

He’s looking through the drawers for a binder clip when he finds Ezra’s bourbon.

He slams the drawer shut, stuffs everything into a file folder. He goes outside, starts carrying boxes out to the truck.

\--------------------------

XIII.

He’s at a ribbon cutting ceremony for a new halfway house in Philadelphia. He bought all the vacant lots and condemned houses on the block and developed it into an apartment complex for recovering addicts. There’s a big lounge for AA meetings, a counselor on staff at all times.

He smiles for the photographers. One of them is from Vogue, they’re doing a story on Philanthropy’s Most Eligible Bachelors. It’s completely stupid, but Mona Vanderwaal bought Condé Nast last year and they’re donating $50,000 to his foundation, so he can’t say no.

He has a lunch on his calendar with the interviewer today, something at a trendy restaurant a few blocks away. He walks over with the photographer, grabs a table by the window.

The waitress hands him a drinks list full of microbrews, which he hands back, ordering a water instead. It’s easier these days. He still has bad moments, but it feels like less of a struggle. He can’t relax, exactly, but he can twirl the coin in his pocket, think about all the time he’s built up.

A woman walks over and sits down across from him. Her hair is longer than he’s ever seen it, and it’s swept up into a messy bun. There’s a streak of gray hanging down, a deliberate part of her look, along with the cat eye glasses she’s sporting. It’s been five years since the last time he saw her. It feels like when he fell off the monkey bars as a kid, like he’s laying on the ground with no air in his lungs, stunned.

Her smile starts small, but gets bigger and brighter as they sit across the table, staring at one another. 

“Aria.”

“Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world,” she says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

The photographer snaps a picture of Jason's grin, the beat before he replies.

"She walks into mine."


End file.
